


respect only comes from the money or your blood

by elainebarrish



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, i don't think anyone else is in it, it is NOT good, ive been writing this fic since i first saw this film when it came out lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/pseuds/elainebarrish
Summary: "They have another assignment. She doesn’t know why they keep risking it, risking what they’ve managed to get already, risking what they’ve managed to achieve, the eight of them, but there’s something about the thrill of it, about the satisfaction when they get home and Debbie’s pulled off at least three other jobs within the job that they knew about."
Relationships: Daphne Kluger/Rose Weil
Comments: 5
Kudos: 53





	respect only comes from the money or your blood

**Author's Note:**

> this is NOT GOOD and it's like. i've been returning to it and writing it like 200 words periodically for like over a year and it probably reads like that. idk what to tell you. it's bad

They have another assignment. She doesn’t know why they keep risking it, risking what they’ve managed to get already, risking what they’ve managed to achieve, the eight of them, but there’s something about the thrill of it, about the satisfaction when they get home and Debbie’s pulled off at least three other jobs within the job that they knew about. Sometimes, occasionally, mostly at the beginning, she resented how Debbie never gave them the full picture, how her and Lou always had their own secret club of the inside job, but now she mostly just likes to concentrate on not losing her cool during her assigned task, during her part of the job. Because even when it seems as though they shouldn’t, all eight of them always have a task, even though sometimes Rose quietly thinks that that just makes the plan even more elaborate than it needs to be, when Nine-Ball could just hack her way in, or Constance could just slip something out of someone’s pocket. None of these jobs are as big as the first, none of them contain the same sort of breadth, or planning, and during many of them Rose and Daphne do little more than attend some high calibre event together.

Many of these jobs, these little sidelines that the eight of them practise in-between the rest of their lives, are merely an excuse for the eight of them to stay in contact. Daphne might have been the one who actually said it, but the others had somehow very easily settled into this group too, had somehow come to rely upon each other. Rose didn’t exactly  _ need _ this, not with how well her brand had taken off after the Met Gala, not with how much she was in demand by people who thought they could somehow (she never did understand how) even come close to looking like Daphne Kluger in her couture. She was even in the process of setting up an actual fashion house, under her name, making her own impact, becoming something off beat and popular, something that she hadn’t expected, after everything that had happened, even before the whole thing with the Toussaint.

So here she is, at another event she didn’t really need to attend, another event she didn’t  _ want _ to attend, with Daphne as her date, wearing her couture, obviously, smiling for cameras and trying not to act nervous. Daphne tells her to relax, because of course she does, because of course she doesn’t even seem to bat an eyelid (she never thought she was much of an actress, but Rose has learnt that she’s an expert at acting like she doesn’t care), but it doesn’t even matter, because no one says anything when Rose is skittish, because she is  _ always _ skittish. It’s been commented on by many, who somehow just seem to think it’s an endearing trait, who are under the impression that she’s just nervous and awkward, that she would prefer being away from this scrutiny, away from these lavish events.

Daphne talks for them both, laughs loud enough for them both, walks through every party like she belongs there, like she knows that everyone’s looking at her and she doesn’t give a shit. Rose respects that from her, is stunned that Daphne is thoughtful enough to only butt in when she can feel Rose’s discomfort, that she’s thoughtful enough to somehow always knows what Rose would say, if she could, if she wasn’t so nervous about the plan, if she wasn’t concentrating on Lou in her ear, smacking her gum loudly and laughing at something that Debbie had just whispered to her, as though that stopped the rest of the group from hearing it.

They’re in Paris, this time, because Rose had, of course, collared Daphne to be her lead model on the runway at her show during fashion week, and because Debbie, of course, had managed to pull a job from somewhere that simply had to be done during fashion week, as though it’s not the most important week of Rose’s actual real life career. But somehow, she can never say no, regardless of what else is happening in her life, regardless of whether she thinks it might just be nice to see Daphne, with no strain or stress, with no plans, with no secret games. Paris is more important to Rose than anything else, even though she still has Anna Wintour’s influence and friendship behind her, Anna doesn’t advertise fashion that she hates, fashion that she thinks has no value, she doesn’t promote shows that leave Rose eating a jar of nutella in the dressing room while the models go home, laughing and whispering among themselves, laughing at her.

Daphne, as always, assures her that her work is good, that it’s excellent, that Anna will love it, because Daphne loves it, because she’s wearing her work to every event, in front of every member of the paparazzi, she assures her that, like every event since they met, it will be good, the critics will love it, regardless of what it looks like. There will be no more air hostesses and they both know it, and Daphne is so sure that it will be successful that sometimes she even manages to talk to members of the press, manages to tell them about her show, about how excited she is, about how good it’ll be.

“You’re freezing up again,” Daphne whispers in her ear, close enough that she feels goosebumps rise upon her neck, close enough that she feels her shoulders relax from the tense hunch that she had somehow adopted without realising.

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” she replies, and Daphne laughs, tugging on her arm lightly.

“Come on, we’ve done a million things more complex than this in the last year. Grab some champagne, chill out, we’ve basically done our part by showing up.” Daphne gives her one of those massive smiles, one of the ones that make her feel as though the sun’s shining on her, and only her, and then she passes her a glass of champagne that she stole off of a passing waiter’s tray with ease, and doesn’t look away until Rose takes a sip.

“There you go, keep sipping, I’ll keep schmoozing, everyone’s looking at me and that’s exactly how we want it,” she says, quiet even with the bubbly that’s in her system, and Rose admires that as much as she admires her cool under pressure. Daphne’s already turning before she can reply, turning and yelling something with a smile at someone across the room, because Daphne knows everyone and somehow over time that means that Rose knows everyone too, that Rose is admired by people she’s only met once because Daphne so clearly admires her, and these days Rose can’t tell if it’s because she has to or if it’s because she honestly does love Rose’s work.

She goes, as usual, to a corner where she ends up with a cluster of admirers and like-minded people, where she ends up with a group who wants to talk cut and colour and fabric with her, and when Daphne looks over she’s concentrating, hard, eyes half hidden by glasses that leave dark shadows in the dim light, as someone else speaks. This is what Daphne likes about her, this exactly, the single minded way that she works, the way that she can concentrate wholly and without nervous energy upon this thing that she is passionate about. This Rose doesn’t even pause to think about what they’re doing here, doesn’t notice Constance slip into the room as a waitress + slip out with something she shouldn’t have, doesn’t see Lou acting casual, popping her gum, as she keeps her eyes trained on their mark. Daphne notices all of it even as she flirts obnoxiously with the man opposite, because she’s much smarter than her tacky nails would ever suggest.

When they leave, still together regardless of the flirting, regardless of the man that had offered her his number, they return to their rented space, return to where the others (and their prize) waits for them. Rose is tense on Daphne’s arm once again, tense like she had had a lapse in her concentration and was now worried that they would pay the price for it, but when they get back everyone else is there, and the diamonds (because they know when they’ve got a good thing going) are in the fridge with the champagne, because they’re in Paris, for christ’s sakes, and even Lou had given up on the beer (Budweiser was the same anywhere).

Fashion week becomes a blur of shows and cameras and Daphne flirting in every environment, with anyone who stands still for long enough, but Rose just thinks of her show. She’s proud of this one, she thinks, thinks it will be a success, but it’s the only thing she can think of even when she’s sat in the front row, staring at models wearing Dior, or Prada, or Georges Hobeika. Part of her wishes that she wasn’t participating, that she could just go to these shows and bathe in the work, bathe in the beautiful things her contemporaries had created, but she knows she has to do this, and do this she will.

Daphne is there, of course, she’s the final outfit, the last model, the most important one, part of the draw of the show. If there’s anything Daphne knows how to do it’s draw attention to herself, and to draw attention to what she wants people to see, and what she wants people to see is Rose’s work, to see it how she sees it, to see Rose how she sees her. So it’s Rose herself who dresses her, who practically ignores the chaos and the models running around in their underwear, who ignores it all to concentrate on pulling and tucking and making the dress look just so, making Daphne look exactly how she wants her (oh god, she wants her). She goes out, and Rose stays in the back with models getting changed back into their regular clothes, their bizarre catwalk makeup left in place, almost like a badge, like an indelible mark of their participation. She doesn’t watch Daphne, doesn’t watch her as she walks away, doesn’t need to check her work, because she knows it’s good, and even if it isn’t, she knows Daphne will  _ make _ it good.

She’s grinning as she runs towards her, as she slips an arm around her shoulders and leads Rose out into flashing camera lights and the warm glare of the spotlights, as she leads her out onto her own catwalk Daphne laughs, like liquid warmth, beautiful where Rose is awkward. Daphne leads her into a bow, something awkward that comes out as some kind of curtsy, and then Rose is laughing as she looks out at these people who are clapping, she looks out at them and she relaxes, and she looks at Daphne and feels some kind of warmth. 

The rest of fashion week is easy, in contrast, and Rose makes her way through shows with little more on her mind than Daphne, who smiles and laughs loudly and isn’t scared to exist. She takes courage from her, from this loud, beautiful woman, this woman who is unapologetic regardless of how many spiteful articles make their way out into the world. Rose could never do that, but she thinks that maybe she could now, that maybe she could be brave enough to exist in a way that is more her than she’s used to being allowed, thinks that maybe she could take some of Daphne’s courage for herself. She thinks that maybe the two of them could be rubbing off on each other, that maybe between them they could create something that would be better than anything else they’d previously experienced.

They stay in Paris for a little longer than fashion week, stick around to enjoy themselves, and they try to keep things quiet, try to keep their hands out of people’s pockets, but that doesn’t mean anything where the paparazzi are concerned, who photograph Daphne whenever they can. Debbie seems annoyed about it, seems to think that Daphne should be staying inside, but Daphne just shrugs it off and drags Rose out with her, drags her to the Eiffel Tower and to the Louvre and they do the stupid touristy things with aplomb, ignoring the photographers and the articles and the tweets, even as Daphne puts out several tweets of her own.

It’s the time in Paris that builds something concrete in her mind, that makes her realise that Daphne is more than just a friend, that there’s something that bubbles between them when she leans in to adjust Daphne’s dress, making sure it falls in just the right way. And Daphne just  _ looks _ at her, all lipstick and teeth and fire, like she knows what’s happening, like she always knew and she was just waiting for Rose to catch on, but Rose thinks that this is maybe just what Daphne is used to, that she’s just used to people falling at her feet, so she tries not to fall. She wants to make her lose it, to make her chase, she doesn’t want to be another of her sycophants, but she’s also tired of the looks and the unspoken words and the  _ uncertainty _ . So she puts it out of her mind, and they all go home, and they don’t see each other for a while, and she thinks about her next show and tries not to think about what her S/S collection will look like on Daphne.

She sketches, always to start, always with a colour palette in mind, and she pretends like she isn’t choosing vibrant reds and bright blues, jewel tones, because they’ve always looked good on Daphne, because she’s always chosen to go bright, brighter than Rose’s work had ever previously been. She thinks of reds and burgundies and deep colours, dark colours that would look striking against her pale skin, and when she pauses to look over what she sees is the cohesive beginnings of a collection, she wishes that this wasn’t somehow entirely dependant upon Daphne’s involvement. The curves are generous, on these sketched gowns, cuts and drapes and lengths that will work on bodies like Daphne’s, that won’t work on the models she’s used to, the models that usually grace catwalks. 

She starts thinking that maybe that could be what she wants to convey, as she sketches something beautiful and voluptuous, voluminous, something flattering but that doesn’t hide the body that wears it, something that shouts goddess in a size bigger than a six. Something about this collection feels like something that she’s never been able to convey before, something that she’s tried to hide, and she thinks maybe it’s just that she’s never truly thought about what she likes, as a woman, not in regards to her work. This collection is something more like dream fulfillment, more like her dressing women up in ways that she likes them, and she thinks that only Daphne could have ever made her so brave.

She starts to think about her show as some expression of her desires, as some revolutionary way to throw out into the world everything that she feels and has never been able to say, never been able to express. She starts to think of her work as  _ art _ , something which she hasn’t in years. She spends time obsessing over fabrics and embellishments, and jewellery and which tiny beads are suitable for the fringing. Daphne lingers in every word, every thought, every touch, but she doesn’t consciously think of her once for weeks. They don’t see each other and she works so hard that she barely sleeps and she doesn’t know what she’s racing but she definitely feels like there’s  _ something _ , even though she’s got time it’s okay she has money now everything is fine but she’s running so fast from the one thing that she thinks maybe she shouldn’t be running from. She runs from thoughts of Daphne even as she writes odes to her in every stitch.

Eventually Daphne pops back up, eventually she’s back in town when shooting wraps up, directing something that Rose actually thinks will be good; Daphne’s read enough scripts in her time to be able to find good ones, and sometimes that’s all a movie needs. She doesn’t tell her she’s back, Rose just looks up from her mannequin, pins in her mouth, three pairs of glasses scattered across her person, that squint that means she’s in the zone in place, and Daphne’s there. Just stood there in her backroom, back to her as she lightly caresses the thick velvet of a dress that Rose finished a week ago.

“Daphne?” she manages, pins still in place, and she tries to gracefully collect them in her cupped palm but she doesn’t think she’s successful.

“Hey Rose,” she turns around with that huge smile in place, the one that makes Rose feel like she’s looking at the sun.

“You didn’t even tell me you were in town!” she bustles forwards, air kisses her like she would anyone else, pretends like it feels genuine, like that feels like how they should greet each other.

“I told you when I’d be back before I left,” she points out, but she’s smiling like she knows that there’s no way Rose would have remembered the date, like she knows that Rose doesn’t even know what day it is. “You look like you’ve been busy.”

“Yes, I suppose I have been,” and looking around she realises that yes, she’s done a lot of work, she’s put in a lot of late nights and early mornings and hasn’t really stopped to look around at her back room full of silk and credenza and velvet.

“You didn’t tell me you were working on anything,” she says, and it’s true. Rose has been tight lipped, even if they have been texting and sometimes calling, even though Daphne has been ranting about her actors and her producers and how awful it can be to get female-centric films distributed. 

“I wasn’t…” she trails off and Daphne lets her, just waits, looking at her with dark eyes. “I wasn’t sure where it was going,” she decides on, and kind of shrugs.

“You got new mannequins,” Daphne says as reply, and Rose goes back to her dress.

“Yes, the ones I had weren’t very… fitting for what I was looking for. No one tells you that’s it’s difficult to pin a size 16 dress on a size two mannequin.”

“You’ve never seemed to have much of an opinion on the industry’s view of size.”

“I’ve never approached a collection like this before,” she says, honest, distracted. “It’s not a statement, it’s what I wanted to do.”

“It’s going to make a statement.”

“Yes, well, that’s the point of art, isn’t it, love?” 

“Any of it for me?” and she almost sounds nervous, but she raises her chin and makes it haughty instead, makes it seem like it doesn’t matter, doesn’t think about how well Rose knows her.

“Of course,” Rose smiles, and turns to her, and takes her hand without thinking about it, leading her to where some of the finished pieces are. It’s gauzy and transparent and she just  _ knows _ it will drape perfectly, will make Daphne look like an ethereal goddess. “I started with this one,” she says, almost panics when she realises how close that sounds to admitting that Daphne inspired the entire collection.

“It’s  _ gorgeous _ ,” Daphne breathes, thinks about wearing it down a runway, thinks fleetingly of Rose taking it off of her after. “Can I try it on?”

“I suppose so,” Rose thinks about not letting her, thinks about making her wait, but she knows that Daphne will just whine, will just look at her with her goddamn Bambi eyes until she lets her. She’s not shy, and they’ve done this before, before Rose let herself make anything that was purely based on what she wanted, and that thought makes her worry about whether this is a good idea, but before that thought is fully formed Daphne is already half dressed, and she’s reaching for the gown, pulling it off of the hanger, stepping into it. Rose moves forward like she’s in a dream, the focused half of her pulling up the zip, pulling it into place, and Daphne is vibrating even though they haven’t even found a mirror yet.

“It feels  _ amazing _ ,” she says, in that way she has that makes it sound like she’s talking about something else, and Rose lets out something like a shaky chuckle.

“Let’s find you a mirror,” she says, instead of any of the things she really wants to say, and then distracts herself with moving mannequins to reveal the full length mirror at the back of the room. Daphne is distracted, then, distracted with admiring herself, and Rose thinks she’s safe to let her eyes wander, to let herself really take her in. She’s done good work, she knows she has, but she also knows that it would look like nothing, would look uninspired and unoriginal on anyone else. She thinks one look at this dress and anyone would know what Rose feels, what she wants, and that thought is terrifying but maybe it is also liberating, because that’s what art is, art is the very inside of a person, art is things that terrify you, art is, to some extent, the expression of your very innermost desires.

“Is all of the collection this good?” Daphne asks, when she can finally stop preening.

“I don’t know, it’s all very dependent on the model,” she says, adjusting things and pinning things and generally just pulling Daphne around a little, not looking at  _ her _ , just at the dress.

“So you’re building a collection where the clothes are as important as the model? And the first one you made was for me?” Daphne’s smiling, just a bit, and Rose fights her instinct to freeze, fights the sensation of being caught out.

“I’m approaching it differently, yes,” she hazards, like that means anything, like Daphne’s eyes don’t already tell her that she knows.

“Does that make me your muse?” she asks, excited, and if only Rose could deny her anything, if only that wasn’t close to the truth.

“Well - I - yes, in a sense,” she says, tries to pretend like this is all some kind of fine, like this isn’t exactly why she’d kept it to herself, like this isn’t why she’d considered debuting the collection without the centerpiece. She finally meets her eyes in the mirror and she thinks that maybe Daphne is fluttering her eyelashes at her, but it’s a bit confusing, really.

“So what’s the thing that draws it all together?” Daphne asks, looking at the other pieces, but mostly looking at Rose.

“It’s, uhm, more of a celebration? Really? Of women?” she hedges, because she doesn’t know how to say that it is, simply, a collection that reflects what she finds to be beautiful in other women, a reflection on how much she enjoys them.

“Oh yeah? Didn’t know you celebrated them.” And when Daphne says it it sounds like something perverse, maybe, or maybe it’s just that it hits too close to home, hits the part of her that isn’t proud of how women make her feel, the part of her that sometimes resents her desire for them.

“There’s a lot to be celebrated,” she says, quiet, and she doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what Daphne wants, doesn’t know what she feels okay to tell, doesn’t know doesn’t know doesn’t know.

“And first off it’s me in this dress, right?” Daphne says, sweet like she is, sometimes, when she wants something, and Rose doesn’t know if what she’s looking for is the compliment or what the compliment reveals but she gives it to her, just like Daphne knew she would.

“You’re definitely something to be celebrated.”

“Are they all this revealing?” Daphne asks, touching her chest lightly, in a way that’s meant to guide Rose’s eyes to her cleavage, and it works because Daphne is  _ good _ at this, because she knows exactly what she’s doing.

“Some of them are,” she says, and Daphne just smirks at her, their eyes meeting through the mirror when Rose looks up.

“Rose, are you interested in women?” There’s something like delight in her voice, something that could be smug. “Like in a gay way?”

She knows she can’t lie to her, knows that Daphne already knows the answer, so she just nods, helplessly.

“If you wanted to tell me you were attracted to me you could have done it in so many other ways,” she says, laughing a little, and Rose blushes. “Come here,” Daphne says, finally turning from her own reflection to look at Rose, who drifts closer like she can’t help it, and Daphne’s the one that kisses her, the one that pulls away smiling. “I love the dress, though.”

“Oh, er, thank you,” Rose manages, blinking, glasses pushed close to her face because of the force with which Daphne had moved in, and Daphne just laughs again, hands on Rose’s waist as she kisses her again.


End file.
